Second Wind
by UndeadAlbinoTrash
Summary: "And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you." ― Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars
1. Chapter 1 – King and Lionheart

"I have no change for it all, beautiful girl."

The days began like any other for her. She had to wake up because of her screaming digital alarm clock, had to take a cold shower to finally stop dozing off, had to eat some over-toasted toast... Sometimes she had to go to meetings of their heads of state to discuss some little detail about her economic policies, and make a mean comment about the new neighbourhood in the Euro zone from time to time.

Once a month, she visited her friends in small parties. There was no United States, United Kingdom, Italy, Germany... Hungary. Only Alfred, Arthur, Feliciano, Lovino, Ludwig.

Elizaveta.

She remembered how Ludwig would always sit between two chairs, facing another one. Today, he sits with Feliciano to his left side, facing Kiku. But the chair to his right is now empty. Permanently empty.

There were those who thought the chair was a nuisance , an obstruction of passage for others. However, others looked at the old wooden seat with affection. With longing.

But regardless of the emptiness of some secret salon's chair, life went on. It had to continue.

Time couldn't stop. Not even for the so called immortals.

The times have flown beyond the horizon, and three years have passed. Three years without Gilbert Beilschmidt.

The albino was the only one who knew when he was going to be gone, but said nothing to the others. And alone, he left. He left no body, no tears, left no letters. Only the longing in the hearts and memories of those who knew him.

There was no funeral. It was the only request that Gilbert would have made before vanishing. Whether it was a joke or not, his wish was respected.

"You can't prepare a funeral for someone who's not supposed to die, right?"

"People like me don't die. We just fly away."

He was brave. She never knew how he could he speak such thing in such a sincere way without crying

In a Winter day, Elizaveta ended up in Leipzig. The air of the city reminded her of her friend, throughout its history as a great contribution to the German academics, the European music and to decisive battles.

She smiled. He was too fond of that city. When the riots began chanting their desire for freedom and the end of the Cold War in increasingly powerful voices, growing into roars, Gilbert was there. Weak, hungry, tired. Maybe he had no strength to lift a sword, but his spirit burned like the eternal flames of the phoenix. His energy was contagious to his people.

He no longer lived to show how strong he was or how he could subordinate anyone to his orders as in his golden age. He lived to destroy the fruit of what he started in the late nineteenth century, the fruit of his revenge and his hunger for power. He lived to show that there was no such things as West or East, but a world without borders, without walls. Without the Cold War.

An air of freedom changed the course of snowflakes that were falling on the Hungarian. The wind deceived her, pretending to be a breath from the Prussian. The nostalgia made her paranoid. At night in her hotel room, she swore she could hear him playing the flute. She swore she could see him wandering the beautiful streets of Leipzig.

It was late afternoon when she decided to look at those old buildings again and, from afar, she heard the melody of that flute. The piper was a skilled man, he had fast fingers that quickly moved from note to note. It was almost like a bird that was born to sing.

She followed the sound of the music and found herself at a busy square. But people passed by and hardly noticed the flautist performing there. Maybe he had been there for some time. Still, she approached him – a man covered by nothing but a thin jacket and an old cap – and threw him ten Euros.

Immediately, he stopped playing and looked up at the strange paper displayed among mere pennies in the little box that he probably used to keep his flute. He took off his sunglasses and continued to stare at the ten Euro bill as if not believing in what had just happened. His eyes travelled from the feet of Elizaveta to her green eyes.

He was a moderately tall man. Slim. His pants seemed old and patched; clearly a beggar. But his eyes... They were the eyes of an old friend.

He quickly put the flute in his pants' pocket and took the bill. "I have no change for it all, beautiful girl," the strange piper commented, handing it back to the Hungarian who could not react. "Unless you're really desperate to hear a specific song."

"Gilbert...? "


	2. Chapter 2 – Bánat Utca

"Gilbert?"

"Guess so." Amidst the bustling German city's square, the two faced each other, analysing themselves in every possible way. She tried to find any flaw that declassified him as the defunct nation. And he tried to remember the woman who knew him somehow. "But if you insist..."

What were the chances of her finding a man identical in appearance, mannerisms and even in voice to Gilbert? That simple shrug. The military stance, inflated chest in pride. Red, piercing and challenging eyes. "You don't know your own name?"

"I do not remember it. I woke up from a coma, apparently." The albino gave her a half smirk of indifference. "Doctors spent two weeks asking me if I remembered being in some nasty accident, some type of aggression that I may have suffered before being knocked out cold."

Could he had been resurrected? Could this kind of thing happen to dissolved nations? Was that man even Gilbert Beilschmidt? "What a story, huh?" She smiled, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Maybe it was just a coincidence. "Excuse me. Maybe I mistook you for... someone else."

"I find it hard to believe. How many albino Germans do you know, young lady?" He laughed that old genuine laugh.

"Fair enough." She accompanied him on her own shy laugh.

"But say, do you still want to request your song or did you just give me ten Euros out of pity?"

Truth. She didn't even know why she had just given that money to the strange beggar. He was really talented with the flute, and also physically unique and strangely familiar in all his aspects. "Play your favourite one."

"That's some bland request. C'mon, challenge me. You pay, you choose." The piper put his hands on his waist in the very same way a seven year old would do. "Let's do the following. I'll try to guess a song you might like or not. If I get it right, you pay me a night's stay in a hostel, deal?"

A hostel? So he really had no place to live? Despite the feeling of pity, she accepted the challenge. "Deal. Do your best."

Without hesitation, "Gilbert" took the instrument to his mouth and played it. It was a song she knew for sure, but it was not one she would have expected to hear played on a flute, at a square of some German city. The letter began to escape her lips, shaped into a smile of familiarity.

_Utca, utca, bánat utca  
__Bánatkővel van kirakva  
__Azt is tudom, hogy ki rakta,  
__Hogy én járjak sírva rajta__._

Some people threw him the last coins of the day in the simple box on the floor to the sound of a foreign song, which soon came to an end just like the afternoon. When he finished it, the piper bowed and took the money, putting it in his pocket and putting the flute away after disassembling it. "I liked you, girl."

"How did you know...?" she asked him. "I do not think a song about sad streets match my face that perfectly."

"At the corner over there," pointed it with his finger "there is a simple bar. Meet me there in an hour and a half, will you?" And just left the square.

The Hungarian stood there, still not knowing what to do, under the orange sky of half past five's afternoon.

The chiming coins still clinked towards some hostel in Leipzig when her legs decided to take her back to her hotel.


	3. Chapter 3 – I Want to Know

**Author's**** Notes: **Hey there, folks! I do believe this is my first time making an AN. Anyways, I'm here to thank for the"Favourites" and "Follows" I've received in "Second Wind". Apart from that, I also made this chapter longer as per request of some people.

And, finally, I highly suggest you to read the chapter with this song here: watch?v=GVoXNS_Ht6c Kind of helped me get to the feelings and stuff.

* * *

Childhood friends. Rivals. Deadly enemies. Acquaintances indifferent to each other. Friends again.

… Distant, in the end.

He was gone without any kind of announcement, like a book without an epilogue to its end. He avoided everyone before vanishing. No one saw him perishing; no one knew if there was pain, regret or fear in his departing. He didn't deserve the solitude of his last days.

Gilbert never deserved the solitude he created for himself. Why did he shut himself in that shell of apparent well-being and self-control when she told him that he could always trust her?

_"So… Friends, then?"_

The voice of the boy she met in the age of the Crusades, amid so much blood, so much misery. He wasn't exact a blessing… But, perhaps, a small opportunity for her to be and feel like a child in such an "adult" war.

_"The pontiff is looking for me. Let's run to the forest!" _They spent whole afternoons playing among the bushes and under the apple trees, pointing at clouds and mimicking birds in times of peace. When they were enemies in the battlefield, they didn't think of it as a mere game.

_"I think… this might be a goodbye."_

People change.

There were things she preferred to forget. And others to which she desperately wanted to hold close.

_"Friends forever!"_

_ "You fight well!"_

_ "I won't forget you."_

_ "Your eyes… are beautiful."_

_ "That dress looks good on you."_

_ "Open your eyes."_

"Hey! Are you okay?" She slowly opened her eyes to find his, as red as blood. He waved his hand in front of her.

"Oh, I… I am. I just feel sleepy, that's all." She murmured, pretending to rub the sleep away from her eyes. They were wet.

"You were crying."

"I wasn't." Elizaveta tried to delude him, convincing the stranger of the opposite.

He sat on the chair across her. "Whether you are telling me the truth or not, it doesn't really matter." He rose his hand, signing to the waiter, that returned him a nod from afar. "The eyes are the window to one's soul. And sometimes we let our feelings pour through them, which isn't something bad, believe me." He carelessly leaned on his chair. "Important thing is not letting this kind of thing build up inside you. Just put all of your distress out, and you'll finally feel your heart beat lighter."

"Even if that distress is someone… _something_ I love?"

"It'll all depend on how much you love it." Silence. The waiter came to take their orders before the two stranger fall in an awkward situation. "For how long is he gone now?" The albino asked her.

"He…?"

"You know who." He opened the beer bottle in front of him, offering her a sip of it before she explained it.

"It was… _He_ was a childhood friend. We had some falling out and comebacks in our friendship, but we were friends, for sure. At least for me." She accepted his beer. "It had been a very long while since we had last talked to each other when he vanished like that. What I feel is a non-justified fault of mine. I don't really know if it's my fault at all, but I can't but feel guilty for it."

"Already in debt with the dead, eh?" He gave her a discrete laugh. "Look, it's over. He isn't here anymore and, unfortunately, apologizing won't bring him back." He added, gently reaching for his bottle. "Honestly, I think you should just… keep going. Mourning is not something I'd do for a dead friend. The guy would want me to keep on living for him, as if I were to take him as a memory and not as a burden, y'know?" Elizaveta kept her eyes locked on his. Was it really truth? "Well, at least I would hate it if I was to be like an anchor to people once I'd be gone." He observed the liquid move inside the bottle when he returned to look at her. "But the dead can't think."

It was a quite pleasant night. The "Gilbert" apologized for not having enough money to pay her a dinner in an actual restaurant. She gave him the money she promised for his hostel and they both bid a simple goodbye. She would meet him again in the next afternoon, in the same place.

When she left the bar – so heart-warming, welcoming, _human_ – she felt the cold wind cut through her flesh, slowly devouring her away. The outside world was cold and lonesome.

_"The human being is fragile. That's what I am: just a sheep playing the role of the wolf among the lions." _His words were harsh. Almost like a poetry, but without the colours, the furore, the folly of its genre. A man devoid of passions, of dreams. A body without a soul, only waiting for the expiration date of his pod.

Back to the hotel, she took her clothes off and entered the tub in her bathroom. It had been a night of rediscoveries. She was supposed to be happy. Then why did that pure smile hurt her heart so much? His bitter taste persisted in her mouth, in her heart; like a puddle of acid that slowly, yet gently took her to a world of pain and solitude of a fallen soldier, of an angel who lost his way. Gilbert was the snake that bit her bosom and poisoned her body with that guilty.

If only she had chosen to ignore him, to ignore the wound in her chest… But he was such a good actor, playing the victim… Dying like a martyr, away from everyone's eyes. A scoundrel, cornered by his own decisions by his deathbed.

"I will never succumb to you again, Gilbert." She whispered to herself.

The beginning of their friendship was perhaps that one choice she would regret throughout her limited eternity. Who would know that that idiot boy would've become her rival?

The time passed and the reality began to show its cruel and stern side. Pain changes people. War consumes and destroy those who fight it. The two friends were not an exception, as the ages were able to show.

The scar of the sword still hurt her shoulder, dangerously close to her neck. That same scar insisted on inflaming and causing her pains, both metaphorical and literal. The first kiss of the viper.

_"I do believe this is a war declaration."_

_ "I thought I was clear in my message. But I can carve it in your body if you wish… woman." The blade kept digging deeper into the smooth skin of that spot. The metal licked her blood, that drained under the already destroyed armour. The white-haired knight brought the blade to his mouth, tasting it. "I won't forget your taste, barbarian."_

He was a monster. And how could she had even loved such a man even for a few hours?

No. No! She had never loved him as anything more than a friend. A stranger that came to know her too well.

She caressed the thick scar. Those were memories she would rather forget. Memories that she wished they had died with Gilbert and had been buried under six feet of dirt and oblivion.

And the time didn't slow down it gallop. Her strength would go with the unstoppable tick-tock of the clocks and with the fall of the leaves of Fall, right before the Winter.

Winter… She recalled it well: The longest Winter in her life.

It was the 70's in the Soviet Union. She was weak from her many failed riots and protests, from such repressions, from the many kicks to her ribcage that never broke, only hurt. As in the myth of Prometheus. Even though it hurt, she knew that the sun would rise for her in the next day; that she would live to see the fall of the wall.

He wouldn't.

The cold wouldn't return him that frostbitten bit of ear. His body wouldn't make the internal bleeding stop. His dislocated arm wouldn't fix itself. Not anymore. He wouldn't go back to be Prussia again. He deserved it. He was harvesting the fruits of the trees he had planted in the past.

Gilbert deserved death. He knew that… And that's why he only crawled away from the eyes of people with his head down to the ground in reverence to all of those who could still dream of a tomorrow without East or West, without the shame of their pasts, without regrets.

In a Winter day, Elizaveta ended up in Leipzig. The air of the city reminded her of the one who was sentenced to death, throughout its history as a great venue to the German intelligentsia, the European music and to decisive battles.

She smiled. He was too fond of that city. Maybe he'd be there to die where it once was his capital. She kept walking the empty and already dark streets, when she heard barks. She hid herself. Maybe the soldiers were patrolling the area, approaching anyone that was walking alone there.

She searched uniformed men, big dogs in collars… But only found the last of the Prussians fighting for a trash can with two street dogs. Nothing more distinguished him from the beasts that roamed the streets like ghosts.

He was weak. He had to play dead so the dogs would leave him alone.

_Until when do you want to fight. Just die in some corner and stop._

He faltered, but tried to stand up.

_ Stop trying._

He faltered one last time, falling over his hands and knees. The square was deserted and it seemed as if the two were the only existing beings there. His already frostbitten hands couldn't manage to help him stay still like that. Yet, he kept trying.

"Please, just die already!" Her voice echoed in the void. She had so much hatred for that man. She wanted to shred him to pieces just like the dogs almost did to him. She wanted to kick him, kill him in that very moment. She wanted to crush him, diminish him, humiliate him like he had always done to her.

The Hungarian approached him her heavy heart telling her to kick him to the death. Gilbert remained in his place, hands and knees on the ground, just waiting for the guillotine that would finally separate his head from his body.

"Lift that filthy head of yours." She was at least waiting for a mocking glance over her from him, but he remained still facing the ground. He never lowered his head to anyone. What was the weight of the shame that finally made him kneel in defeat?

She kicked him.

Nothing. He still tried to stand up even after being kicked down.

"Stop standing up!" She screamed at him. "Damn you, stop trying!"

And kick after kick she continued to try to train him to stay on the ground, teaching him to die little by little.

"Stop suffering and just die!"

However, she wasn't kicking him because of her hatred anymore, but because she wanted to end his suffering. Tears made their way down from her beautiful peridot-green eyes.

_"Your eyes… are beautiful." The young albino told her, pointing at the girl's face._

The man in the ground tried to protect himself, when he grabbed her dress.

_"That dress looks good on you." He murmured to his side, trying to avoid eye contact._

Each blow was a memory being shredded, destroyed, thrown to the gale to be forgot. The square's floor was stained in red next to the fallen former nation. The snow and the tears fell as if trying to cover the blood, as if trying to wash it from the stone tiles that drank it.

She didn't hate him. She couldn't hate him. Elizaveta knelt before him, nurturing him in her arms as a mother would do to her son.

Gilbert's suffering wouldn't wash his sins. He wouldn't depart from Earth as a messiah for that.

Elizaveta turned the face of the fallen man to herself. She mentally asked him to look at her. And so he did. She was crying. He tried to fake a smile. Two broken hearts warmed each other in that way: wordlessly, soundlessly. Only eye contact and simple exchanges of touches to each other's faces.

_"Men are born from suffering."_

Elizaveta continued to hold him like that, sheltering from pain and harm, from any evil that could scare him. He trembled in her arms like an abandoned puppy. She didn't need to apologize. The albino tried to hold her, shyly. He wanted to stay like that until dawn.

But she couldn't. The Hungarian slowly let go of him, reluctantly. Red eyes begged her to come back.

"I can't go back. And so can't you." She whispered at his ear. "We can only walk towards the horizon." She took the small golden ring from her finger and put it in Gilbert's. "Promise me you'll live to find me again."

The man's arm reached her before she could stand up. A smile. Two smiles.

A kiss.

And a goodbye.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Just leaving this note here. If you pay close attention to details, you'll notice that there's this one paragraph that is extremely similar to one in Chapter 1; and that there are some phrases that appear in the very beginning of this chapter and that are later put in the end.

So… Yeah, that's it. I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. "Second Wind" is supposed to have two or three more chapters before the end. But I'm getting very busy with my academic life, and I still haven't even written Chapter 4 in Portuguese. It might take a while until I'm able to post it here. I apologize for the inconvenience.


	4. Chapter 4 — Unfinished Business

He had gone to the square early in the morning, even before the first sun rays touched the city. The truth was he could not hide his desire to see her again. Why? What mysteries was she hiding behind her beautiful green eyes? What magic held him in a world of such charm that reminded him of springs and summers lost in the turns of watches?

But she did not come. Instead, a part was saying goodbye to him.

He bent down to pick up the paper when a small object fell from his own hand.

* * *

Maybe having visited Leipzig really was a bad idea.

_"Death is like an insurmountable river. Its course cannot be changed."_

Maybe throw him back into the shadows of his oblivion would be the best choice. But why did her heart insist on opening the door of that hotel room and going out to find him at the square, as she had promised the night before?

That wasn't even Gilbert. He couldn't even remember who he was. Couldn't remember who she was. That kiss fell back to the limbo anyway, so why not ignore it as she had always done during those three years without Gilbert Beilschmidt?

_"I'm afraid of being forgotten, Erzsébet."_

The albino's words echoed in her mind. It wasn't fair to her… Forget him or not; leave him in the past or eternalize him in her memory?

Elizaveta should get out of that ghost town as soon as possible. The more time she spent there, the worst the wound in her heart would be. She wrote a note on a piece of paper to leave it in the place where she saw him last evening. She would not make him wait for her, a woman who was afraid of facing her past and her pain.

"You're not as strong as you used to be, Erzsébet." Her lips murmured to herself as she arranged her suitcase.

It was six o'clock when she left the little note on the floor where the feet of the piper stood every day. There would have no way to find her again; he didn't even know her name. And it would be better that way. It was a moment of happiness, but life was not even close to a sea of pleasures.

_"Men are born from suffering."_

And why would she fall in love again if she would devote her body and soul to a man that would soon escape from her hands again? She needed a break; but a permanent one this time.

Gilbert continued to haunt her like a bird, coming to whistle phrases in her ear. Or maybe she just had a very good auditory memory.

She looked at the paper one last time, as if dismissing the ticket instead of the piper.

"Goodbye."

The trip back to Budapest was quiet, silent. Almost funereal. The Hungarian imagined the man coming to the place and at the time promised only to find the paper with a simple "goodbye" rather than the woman of the sad streets.

Sad streets. _"Take away the sorrow of my heart, the bitterness of my soul."_ In the end, a song about sad streets suited her. _Bánat Utca_ would still be a burden on her heart for some more time.

When she got home, she laid down on her bed, dropping the suitcase somewhere to be undone. She took a deep breath and tried to hate the stranger whom she met in Leipzig, for having made her thoughtful, reflective… Nevertheless, sad. Even after death, he found a way to bother her.

She was tired. Elizaveta did sleep well the past night, but her dreams seemed to have drained her energies. Again, the culprit for all that was Gilbert. It was always him. She stripped the clothes that seized her body and wrapped herself up in the blankets of her bed. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but his scent was there, impregnated in the fibres of that blanket's fabric. She wanted to open her eyes and not find him there, slapping her childish mind out of that stupid fantasy. But she stood there, huddled against the piece of polyester that held her, imagining the strong, warm arms of the man she definitely loved.

Her heart beat free again and the blanket kissed her neck, going down her spine. It kissed her neck and licked her entire body.

But he was not there. The bed was empty, as well as her heart.

* * *

The piper sat alone under the falling snow, his back leaning against the lamppost. His eyes quickly ran over the words on that random piece of paper.

Was he sure of anything at all? The only things he had were the remaining shards of some distant life's memory.

"Where should I go?" The nameless man asked himself. "And I don't even know your name…"

If his mind didn't know where to start, maybe his heart knew the answer. He rose from the frozen ground and ran. He went on without any direction, running only towards the horizon. He ran fast, flying over the ice.

His feet took him to the first train to Hungary as he tried to keep his hands hidden in the pockets of his pants, in an attempt to warm them up. However, there was something in that pocket.

A golden ring. The albino looked at it carefully. How?

But more than a ring, it was a promise.

* * *

No matter where she went, Gilbert was everywhere. The Winter winds carried his breath, the faint heat of the sun brought her his smile. The arduous task of forgetting him was unbearable

The memories hurt, but they were the only things left of him beyond nostalgia and condolence.

Her head could no longer cope with the pressure, but perhaps her heart could release her from her sorrow. She got dressed again and let her legs guide her. It was late afternoon as she approached the bridge with which she shared her name. Her real name: Erzsébet.

Few knew of her preference for this version. Among them, Gilbert. The Prussian loved to call her by that name.

_"A name worthy of being remembered forever, my nightingale."_

And he made sure to compliment her on her tongue. "Fülemüle" slipped from his lips to hers in a long, secret kiss under the sheets of her bed. The nightingale groaned under the delicate touch of the man who conquered and tame it with nothing but words she never thought he'd use, touches he'd never dare to use, and kisses he'd never had the opportunity to give.

Gilbert was an wondrous poet. A poet of actions. The verses of his best poems were kisses, which sometimes followed a perfect metric in Alexandrines and Redondilhas[1], and sometimes were sudden and volatile in enjambments[2], extending themselves into other kisses and caresses.

* * *

The albino rushed through the streets of Budapest, lost. He couldn't remember ever setting feet there, but his feet knew exactly where to go or in which corner he should turn. On news stands, among all postal, only one caught his attention.

His heart led him to the Erzsébet Bridge.

* * *

The Hungarian hovered her hand over the bridge's railings and watched the Danube's waters. The same water that had witnessed some of the two nations' secret meetings during wartime. The river did not care if it was taboo or not, whether it was improper or not. For him, it was just Erzsébet and Gilbert; almost two human beings who had been too slow to meet each other and to accept themselves as their respective halves. It was a shame to see her alone… Poor Danube was so used to see them running towards each other to an embrace.

However, the bridge linking Buda and Pest still had to connect two broken hearts.

* * *

Destiny. It wasn't exactly something he believed in, but there was no other reason than that given by illogical or supernatural way. Red found green beyond the other side of the bridge and legs made a last effort to proper the tired man towards the woman he sought.

But why did he seek her?

Yes, he definitely knew her from somewhere… A place full of apple trees, where they had pointed to clouds and imitated birds in times of peace; going through turbulent times and rivalry.

She walked towards him, not believing who came to see her. The beating of her heart blocked any thought that reminded her of her hatred for the soldier who called her "nightingale".

And then they realized themselves in each other's arms, foreheads rubbing against each other while they caught their breath from the longest race of their lives. They kissed for the first time in almost twenty years of silence and distance, rediscovering each other's dry lips.

They stepped back for a while, taking time to finally look and admire their counterpart.

"Gilbert."

It would be perfectly fine if he did not remember who she was. The feeling of completeness was already enough, even within the lifespan of a butterfly.

But it was not enough for him. Gilbert took the ring in his pocket, placed it on her finger and kissed her again.

"Erzsébet."

* * *

**Author's notes: **As you might have already noticed, this is a direct translation of the original text, which was in Portuguese. So here are some things that might require some explanation:

[1] _Alexandrines and Redondilhas: _I'm not sure whether English poems have such things as metric (probably do). Alexandrine verses and Redondilhas are specific metrics that work as rules as to keep the musicality and the rhythm of the verses, making it more pleasurable to the listener.

[2] _Enjambments: _Verses in which its phrase continues on the next verse. Pretty much like chopping an entire phrase and redistributing it to two or more verses. Usually done while keeping the metric. "Enjambment" means "to gallop" in French… Or at least that's what my Literature teacher told me.


	5. Chapter 5 — Awake My Soul

Whether it was a dream, a memory or a moment of insanity, she didn't really know. She still doesn't. The only thing she knows is that it happened. That they were standing there, smiling at each other, touching each other's faces, slowly getting closer and diving into a kiss. That he was real for a beat of her heart – which continued immersed in a sea of nausea, torment, doubts and uncertainties.

She wanted to cry; fearing for her lover, whose existence's duration was still a puzzle, or happy for that tiny moment of gathering and rediscovers. The tears rolled down her face and she closed her eyes, trying so hard not to cry. She wanted to be strong.

But why would you lie to someone who sees you with their heart?

He might have noticed how desperate she was by the way she clung to his (former) white shirt, by how her lips devoured his with hunger for passion, by how she slowly guided him towards her bed in that small apartment in the Hungarian capital city of Budapest. And he did notice. That's why he let the flow of that river, that Danube, take him away.

He let her take him through the corridor, passing through – or rather, stumbling over – the couch, the chairs, rugs, shoes and socks; he let her push him onto her mattress, let be captured by the woman who could only want more of that thin-lipped mouth.

Life was short and he knew that. He always did, but tried to deny it. And before his own ashes, for how long could he keep on deceiving himself? Those were ashes that would, one day, be scattered away by the wind. Ashes that would return to the soil and the countless ribs of Adam and Eve's children (and even to the scales of the serpent's kin). And what could be more human than the creation of God's creation?

Garment after garment were shed from their bodies until they were completely bare. He was right there, under the palm of her hands. His heart beat strongly, galloping firmly and steadily. His chest ascended and descended, supplied by the Creator's breath of life. The breath would recede into a small gasp over the embers that once were voracious flames: warm or infernal, welcoming or ravaging. In the dichotomy of fire, there would be only ashes at the end. Cold or hot, it didn't matter: Only ashes.

In each other's arms, they breathed each other, inhaled each other, felt each other. Tangled legs, arms wrapping torsos, they burned together in the intimacy and integrity disguised as desire.

_"And you'll see, love, that there are no such things as cold ashes, ashes that couldn't have burned how ours are now; how we burn uniquely…"_

Darkness sheltered the lovers, who loved each other in a forbidden ritual, a love taboo between nation and human. But oh, if they knew that there were only two souls, only wishing to love and want each other; and nothing more. Only Gilbert and Erzsébet.

Hair-pulling, scratches and bites devoured each other's skins – lighter and darker ones – like the whips of the deadly sins leaving the mark of the devil on the lovers. The calling of the succubae echoed from their grasping throats in gasps and pleads to angels' and saints' skies.

And who in all Heaven and Hell would be worthy enough to judge such an understandable love, yet so dirty and forbidden? Such a genuinely… _human_ love? Was it right to sin in that way? Was it wrong to feel something so pure?

Then maybe they shouldn't burn at all. What was the matter in only having your life to burn away?

_"What is life if not to leave your very own ashes to a forgotten road of the ashes of those who burnt before, who knew how to burn, who had the opportunity to burn?"_

The heat and the delight intoxicated man and woman, quietly silencing Guilty and Torment's voices, who screamed since the moment they shared that night's first kiss? They also silenced the sound of the clocks, the hours, the sand in the hourglass; time didn't pass, neither went back. The moon and the stars decided to stop by and watch them shyly smile at each other, shyly touch each other and realize that they were human, but above all, souls. Even if one was to last more than the other.

Wordlessly, there was the initial invasion, the choking discomfort, later to be washed away by pleasure's rising tide. She pulled him closer. Sang his name in his ear repeatedly, playing with his hair, calling him to move with her in that exotic dance of hips and hearts. He put a lot of effort in trying to keep his impatient pace, his will to consume and consummate her to his own wish. And even if he couldn't stop the strength with which he made love, he carefully made sure not to hurt her.

What he didn't know was that all she needed were indeed his intoxicating thrusts. With no shame at all, she'd collide against him. Her hands scraped against any skin her nails could reach, because one day, they would not be able to anymore.

If she only knew when…

If only the destiny wasn't so cruel.

But that didn't matter and wouldn't matter in that moment. If fear of death would eventually come – sooner or later – then why waste that unique moment, that apex created by centuries of anticipation?

Life perhaps was the biggest lie they had ever known. Or maybe it was just a very short truth. For the first time, she didn't care to chase after such a useless answer. Ignorance was indeed a bliss.

_If you wish to go faster, go alone. If you wish to go further, go together._

If only they knew that life isn't a race, but a walk. A walk that had already come to an end and they insisted on going.

And so, there was nothing left on that bed but two tired nations, or perhaps, two tired beings. Tangled limbs everywhere, the pair had achieved exhaustion. The sweat covered their bodies like a thin sheet of water while they tried to calm their breathing. Still together, Gilbert slowly rolled to his side, allowing Erzsébet to rest on him, holding her in a hug that spoke volumes in the way his arm pulled her to his body. No despair and no impatience at all. Because in the end, she would stay there until the very end.

Two weeks to a month: This is the lifespan of a butterfly. Are bugs aware of their short reality? Are their born already knowing their reason, their objective? What were butterflies to humans? And what were humans to nations if not butterflies?

In the beauty and simplicity of what is not permanent, time loses its pace in reality's waltz.

The breathing lulled the lovers, who slowly surrendered to sleep. Only Gilbert tried to remain awake. The woman was accommodated over his chest. The long brown strands of hair were splayed on the bed and his arm. The Hungarian woman traced roads from a scar to another, following the Geography of that white surface, decorated by the marks that time forgot to erase.

It was good. The lips lazily flirted with the naked body of the man they have always had, but never had searched for. And they never did: He had always belonged to her.

* * *

Morning was late that day. Erzsébet stretched herself before rubbing her eyes and move around on the bed. But her hands and feet didn't find who they were looking for. She got up, forgetting to cover herself. Searched around the entire room, but he wasn't there. The sheets of his side of the bed weren't wrinkled. His shoes and socks weren't carelessly thrown on the floor. Actually, she found no proof confirming the events of last night. So it had been all a dream? A dream so good she actually mistook it for reality? She looked at the clock and couldn't tell whether time had passed or not. Nostalgia was cruel, but not as much as the facts themselves.

Nostalgia which had left a foul taste in her mouth and in the body of whom was allowed to love one last time, even if it all meant nothing but an illusion of someone who was already ill from longing.

And it wasn't even his fault, she already knew it. No one can be blamed for dying. But Gilbert knew he could have avoided meeting her that one last time. He knew he could avoid extending her suffering, which was already shrinking in some corner of the hearts of those who loved him. However, she didn't blame him for reviving that feeling.

Because it was good.

Because it was worth it.

And that's where her mind was roaming around as she leaned against that old lamppost on the square she got to meet him again. The many voices that filled the place with words in that oh-so familiar language faded into the air. The wind blew from a direction in the city of Leipzig while the sweet melody of a flute echoed in her mind.

She didn't know when she'd be back to that city again. That'd if she returned at all. She would soon go back to Budapest, back to her reality of longing.

When a child carelessly stumbled on her leg and fell on the ground. Erzsébet took a while to notice the collision, surprised by the impact only after seeing the poor little guy get back on his feet by himself, combing his… white hair? Red eyes matched his jacket as they met green. The boy looked at her with a familiar smile. He quickly knelt to the ground and reached for something, handing it to her.

— I guess it's yours.

He darted back into the crowd. The Hungarian woman only smiled wordlessly as the boy ran before looking into her hand and see what the small albino had given her.

The golden ring.

There are no such things as random encounters. It could've been karma, luck, coincidence, but that was the lesson. Life would always come back anew, like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. Metamorphosis will still be the parable hidden in the mysteries of the great puzzle that are Life and Death. Because Life's poetry is within constant Death. And it becomes music when poetry repeats itself and becomes a chorus.

Whether it was a dream, a memory or a moment of insanity, she didn't really know. She still doesn't. The only thing she knows is that it happened. And that it will happen again.

It's time to walk again.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **IT IS FINALLY DONE, MY FRIENDS. Thanks for the patience, thanks for keeping up with the fic. I hope you liked and see you soon!


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